


The Truth

by ObsidianCrow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, he's clueless, hinted Johnlock, hinted future johnlockmary, hinted mystrade, sherlock didn't even know he's john's best friend lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianCrow/pseuds/ObsidianCrow
Summary: Sherlock's been dismantling Moriarty's network for six months now, while John lives clueless to Sherlock's survival. A meeting with Irene Adler convinces Sherlock to tell John the truth.Or, to have Mycroft tell John the truth.(I was rewatching the series and was wondering what it would look like for John to learn what really happened, and what would make Sherlock change his mind about telling him. This is what I came up with.)Johnlock is heavily hinted, Mystrade if you squint.





	The Truth

“You ok, man?”

Sherlock glanced at the teenager, his usual deductions failing him through blurring vision. He needed to hurry.

“Shit, is that blood? Hold on- I'll call 911.”

“It's... from a play. I'm fine. Actor.”

He had been in the US for three months now, and he grew to hate it more and more with every passing day. People were overwhelmingly “friendly”, always offering him smiles and concerned for his well being. He missed London, where he could go onto the tube covered in blood and be carefully ignored. Here, if he didn't return someone's smile they'd ask after his health.

Why couldn't Moriarty's US network be in New York city? Why did it have to be in a friendly Southern city? And why did _she_ live in a nearby suburb, where anything out of the norm became the town talk for months?

Her house. Finally. A big two-story with a manicured lawn. Two cars parked in the driveway. That must have been why she'd moved here. She could have four times the space of a city apartment for the same monthly price, and own the property. He narrowed his eyes to better make out the house number. 5361. Or was it 5381? 5861?

No, this had to be 5361. He didn't have the energy to search any further.

He stumbled up to the door, holding his finger down on the doorbell. Waited. Waited. Where was she? “Come on, come on, come on.” A wave of dizziness washed through him. He leaned heavily against the door, fighting to stay conscious. His support left him, and suddenly he was on the floor, pain ricocheting through him. He grunted, pressing a hand to his abdomen. He looked up through swirling images, making out an unfamiliar female face. Not her. He had gone to the wrong house. He was going to die.

Everything went dark.

~

A steady beeping. The overwhelming scent of sterilized... everything. An uncomfortable surface beneath him. The hospital. That wasn't good. He could be traced, discovered alive, and then John and Gavin and Mrs. Hudson would be endangered.

The blunt end of a fingernail, tracing his cheek. An affectionate gesture, most likely from a woman.

_The_ Woman.

He opened his eyes. “Ire-”

She cut him off, pressing her hand over his mouth with a conspiring smile. “Rena Smith.”

He took note of the ring pressing into his upper lip. Married, or pretending to be. That explained who answered the door.

Her eyes were as bright as he remembered, lips painted red. He raised his brows at her. She removed her hand. “Rena,” he corrected himself. “I came to you specifically to avoid the hospital.”

“I know the head doctor here,” she said, offering him a wink. “You're safe.”

“Know the head doctor? Or know what he likes?”

Irene laughed. “I can't do that anymore, unfortunately. Would give me away.”

He glanced around the room, before returning his gaze to hers. “The flowers on my bedside were chosen at random from a selection of prearranged options, possibly the hospital giftshop. The name on the tag is Jacob Johansson, the last name of which matches my doctor- written on the whiteboard over there, above my list of medication dosages and times. Judging by the inclusion of a last name on the flower card, the name was written on by a third-party, who also delivered it.”

“Was it?” asked Irene, looking entertained.

“Yes. No one close enough to buy him flowers would have included his last name, and furthermore, I am not him, so it is unlikely any family or friends were informed of his supposed stay here. I can only assume I am here under the name of one of the doctor's relatives- a son or husband, perhaps- and that the flowers were sent to make the nurses think the doctor cares about her relative being in here. But the doctor doesn't really care, so he simply paid someone from the hospital gift shop to deliver flowers. Which he didn't take the time to even pick out himself.”

“All that from a flower arrangement and a name on a whiteboard. Still clever, and still a show off,” she said, playfully.

Her words hit him, bringing back thoughts of a certain doctor's admiring gray-blue eyes. He pushed it away. That train of thought never led to anywhere good. “What I can't understand is how you got a doctor to go to such lengths to hide my identity. I can only assume the doctor owes you a debt of some kind.”

“Not quite. I'm married to her sister.”

“I don't see how that equates to risking her job for you.”

Irene plucked a rose from the flower arrangement, a few shades off from the red of her lips. “I have a way of getting people to do what I want. And the people here are much more willing to help a stranger. I've found it rather refreshing, to be quite honest.” She removed a stray thorn, tucking the rose behind Sherlock's ear. “Jacob is her son. He's in his late twenties. Off at grad school.”

Sherlock took a closer look at her, now. Hair cascading past her shoulders in gentle waves, shirt form fitting yet modest. Plain denim jeans. A single stud earring in each ear. His eyes lingered on the blue amulet at her neck, on a solid silver chain. Aside from the diamond on her finger, it was the only valuable thing she wore. A gift, perhaps. She was trying not to look too much like The Woman, trying to avoid attracting attention...

“Do you think the people here could possibly recognize you?”

She glanced at the shut door. Back at him. “I'm sure you know what's happening in the city. That's why you're injured.”

“What _was_ happening in the city. Completely dismantled, now. Though I have to question how clever you are, if you knew he had a network nearby and still settled down here.”

“I wasn't going to let him bully me out of these property prices. Besides, they never go into the suburbs.”

“Fair enough.” He went to push himself up, dizziness forcing him back down. He pressed a hand to his head. “I want out of here.”

“I'll have a nurse bring you a wheelchair, and we'll sign you out.”

“Oh? Not gonna fight me over it?”

“If I wanted you to stay here, I wouldn't fight you. I'd command you.” She bared her teeth, the smile intimidating.

He laughed, genuinely, for the first time in half a year.

~

“So were you surprised to see me alive?” he asked, accepting a glass of cold tea from her.

“I was surprised to see you almost dead,” Irene said, settling into the armchair across from him.

He took a sip of the tea, only to set it on the coffee table, gagging a little. She must have poured bottled tea into a cup for him. The States had already started to negatively effect her preferences. “Yes, that was rather unfortunate. I've dismantled Moriarty's US network now, but I can't let word get to anyone that Sherlock Holmes is still alive, or another part of his network may hear. I have a lot more work to do.”

“I'm assuming John knows?”

Sherlock found himself looking at the pictures on her walls. Portraits of Irene, posing with a pretty ginger woman. “Does your wife know about your past?”

“You didn't tell him.” Disbelief.

“Do you think you'll have children in the future? Use the same sperm donor so your kids are blood related? Have the full nuclear family suburban experience?”

“Sherlock.”

Commanding. Sharp. He looked at her. Felt frozen under the intensity of her brown eyes. She got to her feet, standing over him, and he could see the dominatrix in her.

“You have to tell him.”

“I- what?” He stared at her, feeling the old niggling guilt worming its way up. “Why do you care if John knows?”

“When he found out I was still alive, after I faked my death,” she said, slowly, as if speaking to a small child, “what was the first thing he demanded of me? Even though you and I were barely acquainted?”

“That you tell me you're still alive. But my life wasn't threatened by this knowledge. His life would be.” That same hard look in response. She reached towards him. He flinched, anticipating a slap. She simply pulled the rose from behind his ear. He gazed at it, composed of concentric pink petals. “Moriarty said he'd kill him if I didn't kill myself.”

“If you don't tell him, you might as well kill him.”

Sherlock looked up at her. “Surely I don't mean quite that much to him.”

She handed him her mobile. “Tell him.”

~

John said his goodbye to Sarah, making his way out of the hospital. Another long day, full of hemorrhoids, prostate checks, and various types of unusual “discharge.” He went to hail a taxi. A dark, sleek car pulled up. He stared as a woman, Anthea, approached him. One of Mycroft's people. The distant feeling of hope filled him. He quickly shoved it back down.

Sherlock wasn't coming back. He was gone. Forever. Because Mycroft had been stupid enough to give Moriarty information.

“You can tell Mycroft that I'm done with him.”

“You'll want to come for this,” she said.

“No, no I do not. I will never want to go to Mycroft for any reason, ever again. And you can tell that son of a bitch I said so.”

The look on her face should have been enough to warn him.

He felt the stick of a syringe in his neck. “Oh, fuck you, Mycro-”

~

John awoke in a comfortable leather chair, seated opposite Mycroft. The big desk between them acted as protection, impeding John's path to retribution. He wanted to beat the serious look right off Mycroft's know-it-all face. “How dare you?”

“Dr. Watson-”

He stood up, hands on the desk as he leaned over its wide surface. “First you get Sherlock _killed_ , not to mention completely disgraced, and now, six months in, you have the gall to drug me so you can drag me here. I am not one of your employees. You can't do whatever you like with me and have me just go along with it. Not anymore. You lost that right when you aided a criminal against your own brother.”

“John-”

“Shut up. I'm leaving, and if you try to stop me, there will be hell to pay. I never want to see you or one of your black vehicles again.” He turned on his heel, making his way to the door.

“Sherlock's alive.”

John froze, even as his heart sped up. “What?” His voice came out as a breath.

“Sit down and I'll explain everything.”

John returned to his seat, in a stupor. “If you're lying to me so I'll help you-”

“I don't want anything from you, except to tell you the truth,” said Mycroft. “Well, I don't want to tell you the truth. I actually advised against it, but Sherlock's insisting now.”

John scanned his features, but saw no malice, no deception. Not that he could ever really tell when it came to the Holmes brothers. “Explain.”

“Moriarty told Sherlock he would kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg unless-”

John raised a brow at the use of Lestrade's first name.

“-er, Detective Inspector Lestrade, unless he killed himself. We had anticipated that he'd want to make Sherlock kill himself, so we created 13 possible ways for him to fake his death.”

“We?”

“Mainly myself, Sherlock, and Molly Hooper.”

“Wait. _Molly_ knows? And I don't?” He could feel his anger rising again.

“He needed her help to fake a body. He's currently off dismantling Moriarty's elaborate network. He wanted to tell you, but I convinced him you'd let slip that he was still alive. It would endanger your life if news got to what remains of Moriarty's network, and would also compromise his current mission.”

John stared, speechless.

“However, he sent me a message a few days ago. It was rather insistent, especially for him. Said you had to be told. I have to say, I've never seen such urgency from him before.”

“So let me get this straight,” said John. “All this time, Sherlock's been alive. And you've known, and Molly's known. And the only reason I wasn't told was because you thought I couldn't keep a secret.”

“More or less.”

John laughed. “All this pain, because _you_ didn't trust me.” He got to his feet. “Unless you have a message from Sherlock, don't bother contacting me. I thought Sherlock was cold. But you? You're heartless.”

He turned his back on Mycroft. He had to get home. Had to process what he'd been told, decide what it meant for him.

“It was for your own protection, Doctor.”

“No. It was for Sherlock's protection. You don't give a fuck about my safety.”

No response. John stormed out.

~One and a half years later~

 

John sat at the restaurant, waiting for his date to return from the loo. Mary was a clever woman he'd met at work, capable of making Sherlock-level deductions. Though, unlike Sherlock, she wasn't into showing off. She was warm, and caring, and respected his lingering love for his “dead” friend. And was in fact the only person he'd confided in about Sherlock's survival. She had listened attentively as he described the detective, expressing a desire to meet him.

He couldn't stand lying to her about something so important to him. He liked to think they'd get along if they met. Not many people clicked with Sherlock, but Mary... she was different. Just like Sherlock. Whom he may or may not ever see again

No, he had to come back. He was just busy with Moriarty's network. John cursed that man's existence, cursed him for taking his best friend away. But more than that, he cursed Mycroft for his part in it.

“Sorry about that. What were you saying?” Mary said, settling into the chair across from him.

He felt his anger give way to nervous excitement. He reached for the engagement box. “Mary...”

A menu blocked his view of her. “Sir, which wine did you say you wanted? I cannot recall.”

John tried to push the menu away, but it stayed persistently in his way. “ _Timing._ Not now.”

Mary was stifling her laughter from across from him. This was not at all how he wanted this to go.

In his thick accent, the waiter continued, “This one right here has an unfamiliar name, but alas, it is like an old friend not seen for so long. Easily missed because of a few details.”

“Seriously, not now-” John froze as his eyes fell on the waiter's face. “Sherlock?”

Mary sat up straight at this, peering more closely at the waiter.

The man set the menu neatly on the table, dipping John's napkin in the water and carefully wiping away the drawn-on-mustache above his lip. “The one and only.” He gestured at John's face. “Does yours rub off? ”

John got to his feet. It had been so long. He had wondered if Sherlock had been killed in his efforts to dismantle Moriarty's network. Succeeded in faking his own death, only to be killed in later efforts to clear away the criminal's web. “You're here.”

Sherlock smiled, on the verge of laughter. “You should have seen your face- complete shock. Can't believe it took you so long to recognize me.”

“You bloody bastard.” John punched him in the face. Sherlock gripped his bleeding nose, all eyes in the restaurant turning towards them, Mary shouting out in surprise.

“John, you have to understand-”

John embraced the taller man, sinking his fingers into the thick material of his friend's coat, inhaling the familiar scent. “You're really here.”

Awkwardly, Sherlock returned the embrace. “One last miracle.”

“You heard.”

“Of course.”

 

 

 


End file.
